


JAOA - Structured Forms

by Gail Riordan (lferion)



Series: JAOA [7]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Established Relationship, Introspection, Jedi Training, M/M, Poetry, Rituals, picking up and going on, vestments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-01
Updated: 1999-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:03:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/Gail%20Riordan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of illumination is only useful if you do something with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	JAOA - Structured Forms

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Black Rose for letting me play, and to and to both her and Divinia for comments, inspiration and help.
> 
> Ambiance: Anton Bruckner - Symphony 3; Amberwolf; Shostakovich - Symphony 5; Prokofiev - Romeo &amp; Juliet, (SFS &amp; MTT recording on RCA)
> 
> This was written in the days before html and pretty formatting were commonly available in email and list archives, and thus: [This is telepathy] and /these are thoughts/ and /_Memory or lines that persist in the head, or thought in italics_/ One of these days I will figure out a more graceful way to show those distinctions, but that day is not this day.

Year of the Republic 24,985

This was the door; not his usual practice room (though it bid fair to become so), deep in the Temple, quiet and private. Qui-Gon put a hand to the panel, lips pressed straight at the faint tremble in his fingers - nerves? tiredness? - as he tested the Force. The room was empty, unused. Had quite possibly not been used since he and Obi-Wan had left it previously. With a little sigh and a gathering of resolution he tapped the touchplate and the door hissed open. The room was dim, the light strengthening as he entered. Carefully, he locked the door and set the shielding as high as it would go.

/Do what you _can_, not what you think you ought to be able to do./

It had only been a week, but Obi-Wan and a freshly outfitted Anakin were off again, a fact-finding mission of the tedious kind. Obi-Wan's organization and comfortable understanding of structure would be a better match for both Anakin's current spate of 'what' and 'how' questions (not to mention his restless, adolescent energy), and the detailed, precedent-dependent, politically charged minutia of the task than his own intuitive, broad and immediate awareness of life and the Living Force would be. It was one of the few types of mission he did not mind not having to do. Qui-Gon sighed. He might not miss the mission, but the absence of Obi-Wan and Anakin never failed to be less than a physical ache, outwardly denied, inwardly suffered.

/Enough. They are beyond your present reach, if not your care. Let it go. They will return. Believe it./ A measured, perpetually shortened breath. /Keep your attention in the here and now, where it belongs. _Master_ Jinn./ This place, this task, this moment.

It was the same space as before, but his intention was different, the task the one his Padawan-turned-Master had set: the first two Forms. Begin again, because you can, because _you_ need it. Unbidden, a line of poetry presented itself. /_'The corner of the circle do I stand'._/

The practice floor was indeed circular, with a little raised triangular afterthought at the door and three more arranged around the circle, almost but not quite squaring it. Places to put one's gear, or sparring weapons not currently in hand, to sit and observe off of the floor proper.

With deliberation he stripped down to loose practice trousers, folding each discarded garment neatly, ritually. The memory of Obi-Wan doing likewise with quick elegance warmed him briefly, but he put the thought aside. /Here and now./ /_Perceiving both the shadow and the light_/

Here and now appeared to contain a great deal he had not allowed himself to examine too closely. Living in the absolute instant was no problem (unless clinging too closely to the most narrow definition of 'now' _was_ the problem). Why was a broader, more inclusive 'here and now' so difficult? As easy a breathing, usually, before. /Ah, but breath, breathing is no longer so simple, is it?/

He had endured, but not really accepted the endless hours struggling with his body's conviction that it was suffocating. When, outwardly silenced, breathed-for, helpless on total life-support, the here and now had been nigh unendurable; held on to, moment by tiny moment, by the promise that it would not always be so, by the voices of Obi-Wan and - soon enough - Anakin speaking through the Force, encouraging him to speak back. Someone had brought him a pot-plant, (Anakin, aided and abetted by Yoda, though he hadn't known it at the time) a thing of gnarled trunk and graceful, feathery leaves. It sat in the midst of all the medical detritus of the early days of his recovery and convalescence and just breathed in its own plant-like way - reaching out to the light, resting in the shadow - a simple living thing. That plant was still in their quarters. Anakin had named it, unaccountably, 'Threep'.

He had known _then_, in that pain, that breathing could still be simple, would be again. When had he forgotten that? A snort, half amusement, half derision. /Probably under the eyes and hands of the physical therapists./ The oh so cautious healers and medical technicians whose well-meaning voices and helpful techniques and so carefully demanding exercises and cautions and worries had drowned - he had allowed to drown - the quiet, Forceful voice of the plant.

A sigh, drawn brows and a wry grimace aimed at himself. /So. I have allowed mere discomfort to rule me more than I ever did distress./ Air did move, was moving, simply, easily, in and out of his chest, steady, even, meditative breaths. /In what else have I allowed fear, discomfort - or more insidious, the expectation of discomfort or fear to rule me?/ And make that a question merely, only a question, a means to seek and gather data, not an accusation twinned with fear, or anger, or even expectation. Just a question.

While he had not been paying attention, his body had worked out a balance between the presences and absences, the vital and inert spaces within. No longer an unconsidered richness, a volume and capacity thoughtlessly available, trained and matched to his height and strength, breath was now a more slender resource, to be husbanded, encouraged, spent with care and not wasted. No longer, ever, unconsidered. But not so slender that it could not meet his need, his will, stretch to meet his desire; nor yet so well considered and mapped in truth that greater capacity or strength might not be found and encouraged. A balance of asymmetries. New dynamics to explore, rather than rage against.

Another question - what _could_ he do, not 'what could he not'? Recognize, consider, acknowledge and let go. Let go. /_Let go._/

Anyone watching would have seen little of the internal struggle, noted perhaps the quickened, harshened breath, the folded mouth and the tight line of jaw and spine before fisted hands opened, releasing, the dark eyes that closed briefly before opening also on a little sigh. A tiny, conscious ritual. /Let it go./

For there was, now, here, only himself, the place, the task and the Force.

Qui-Gon found himself in preparation stance, still standing in the little carpeted angle by the door with the controls for the training droid. Taking a fresh deep breath, he stepped down to the practice floor, the smooth, cool texture of the padding over the blade-resistant stone greeting his bare feet familiarly.

There were three ways to approach the First Form: the flow of defense, as Obi-Wan had demanded of him; the force of attack, which Obi-Wan had met him with; and the dance of balance, the solo mode, longer and containing both. The Jedi Master held all three possibilities in mind, breathing.

/_Choice, chance and change contained within my hand_/

First Form, third mode. Yes. He reached down, hesitating before picking up his lightsabre from where it lay beside his neatly coiled belt and folded sash. Elegant and slim, it rested in his hand, unignited, potential. He could still feel the touch of Obi-Wan's hand on his own, the smaller fingers forcefully curling his larger ones around the cool metal and holding them there. /"Then use it however you can."/ A tool, a symbol, a connection between himself and the Force, himself and his beloved. The blade that had met and matched the Sith on Tatooine, at the melting pit on Naboo. The third modes were often done weaponless, but this, this was not practice, nor demonstration or dance or even mere exercise. This was a journey, a ritual, and deserved - required - not just his full &amp; not inconsiderable attention and focus, but the proper tools as well. Thoughtfully, nodding to himself, he turned the power up to full before taking it in both hands, right over left, center salute, and with a gather and release of breath, of hope, of fear, Qui-Gon Jinn thumbed his sabre on.

/_No comfort here, no surety but sand_/

Bright, baleful green the blade lept forth. The vibration kissed his palms, sang in wrist and ear and lung. The weapon of a Jedi, demanding and unforgiving. And was he still Jedi? His heart contracted. /Oh, that was the question, wasn't it./ The last time this weapon had been wielded in earnest life had been lost: his own as well as that of the Dark warrior who had killed him. That he had it back was Obi-Wan's gift, his Padawan-beloved's determination and fierce, Forceful love, bringing, this time, the present and the past together to create a future. /"I _will_ do this."/ Obi-Wan's, not his own. With his not unwilling acquiescence, but not his will.

Unseeing, Qui-Gon stared through the aching brightness of the sabre's destruction-in-potential, seeing that distant, deadly place. Life was all around him, in him. Accept that life. Live it. "_I_ will do this," he whispered aloud in the humming silence, past the sudden, hot tightness in his chest. "I _will_ do this." His hands were gripping the hilt so hard they were shaking, and the cords stood out in his wrists and burned across his shoulders. Even after all this time the sheer strength of Obi-Wan's love continued to surprise him, as did the depth of his own response. Suddenly, irrelevantly, he was glad that this room was not in an often-frequented corridor, that he had locked the door and set the shielding high, that there were no witnesses to this other than the Force itself. His eyes stung and he realized he knew, he _knew_ that Obi-Wan's love had nothing to do with his, Qui-Gon's, skill or swordsmanship or health or place in the Order (or indeed anything having to do with his own self-definitions), and would not falter no matter the state of any of those things. His beloved did not need for him to be swordsman, or Master or anything else other than himself, (however much he might like or enjoy the advantages and expressions of the bright aspects of those things.) He did need Qui-Gon Jinn to _be_ Qui-Gon Jinn, no more, no less. (It was himself who had acquired issues with those outer things.) "I will _do_ this," he breathed. His cheeks were were wet and the blade-light dazzled his eyes. "Because I need to. Because _I_ need." No longer Master to Obi-Wan's Apprentice, Obi-Wan had given him permission - more than permission, support - to have that need. Need to fight for his own self-definitions, need to do and be doing and work out his own salvation in space and time and action, not merely contemplation.

[Oh love, you are a much wiser man than I am.]

The relief from a fear he had not recognized nor known possessed him shook him, unknotting the constriction around his heart, disordering his breathing. He hoped, intensely, that Obi-Wan knew that he was in turn loved as unreservedly and absolutely.

And still the lightsabre sang in his hands, insistent, demanding. Not yet even properly begun and already he felt as though he had been running, or fighting, or making love.

/_The fond familiar offers no respite_/

Even as he blinked the last tears from his eyes and ordered his breath, centering and relaxing muscles unconsciously wound tight, he wondered where the poem had come from, was coming from. It was certainly no conscious recollection. /No respite, indeed./ Loving fond or foolish fond, the familiar was entirely Jedi, and all pointed back to his purpose: his Jedi beloved, his almost-Padawan Anakin, the woven texture of the flooring cool and firm beneath his feet, the businesslike touch of linen wrapping groin and hip and knee, the even fall of light and the ozone-iron-salt scent of the room, the subtle, forceful weight of the sabre pulsing against his fingers.

To do, to act, to seek the Force and serve according to its will.

Three years had seen the asymmetrical balance of breath in his chest become familiar, as well as the sharp pull of scars and the cramp of damaged and overextended muscle - a familiarity that offered no respite from the necessary notification of pain - all too familiar, and as unfriendly as the chill brush of air on the nape of his neck.

(He had cut his hair because he could not take care of it properly, as he could not take the care he was accustomed to of his responsibilities, his apprentice, his beloved. He still could not. And short it would stay, even though Obi-Wan didn't like it, had never really understood why he had done it, and would periodically try to persuade him to let it grow again. It was, he supposed, pride of a sort, pride and stubborness. But still, necessary.)

An equally familiar anger began to burn along his nerves, and he went quite still, recognizing it. "No," he said, very softly. "No. Anger has no place here." Broad forehead creased, eyes tight shut, he sucked air in sharply as he fought another battle with himself. Exhale deliberately, strongly, letting the acid chill wash through and out, given to the Force, bending thought away from those too-frequented paths. In and out again. In and out. /Leave it go, Qui-Gon Jinn, leave it go./

And it was gone. It would be back. Anger was his most frequent battle.

Raising his chin and opening his eyes he sighed, appreciating the paradoxically broad yet narrow focus of the present. Still again and center. Preparation stance.

/_The corner of the circle do I stand_/

He almost laughed. Without a doubt he was going in circles, emotionally anyway. /So, if I am back at the beginning, then I should begin, should I not?/

First Form, third mode.

Long ago, as an Initiate, as a Padawan, and even as a Knight, Qui-Gon had always offered a formal unspoken salute at the beginning of each bout of official competition matches, and often enough in informal bouts that he had taken a certain amount of teasing over it. As an Initiate, 'The Living and Unifying Force' had been his comprehensive intention. As Yoda's Padawan, his Master had gained place and honor in the short litany of heart and mind. As he neared his knighthood he had gained the confidence to add his opponent-partner to his personal observance, above and beyond the ordinary acknowledgement at the beginning of a competition match. With increased duties as a journeying Knight and having gained a Padawan of his own, competitions had largely fallen by the wayside. Ylian had taken to the idea, and had matched him both in intention and gesture on the few occasions they had done demonstration bouts, but Xanatos had thought the whole thing too funny and old-fashioned for words, and his laughter had been cutting (more cutting, indeed, than all the childish teasing had been). That pain subsumed into the greater pain of Xanatos' fall and betrayal had seen the outward show of the quaint habit disappear entirely, and it became another of those things of which people tactfully did not speak. Though occasionally the litany would play in his head when preparing particularly intense teaching or display bouts (having long since stopped competing, though he would encourage Obi-Wan to enter). Those almost surreptitious salutes had increasingly featured Obi-Wan himself. But the last formal, outward salute he had done had been during the bleak years after Xanatos and before Obi-Wan.

(A ritual duel to the death had been the seal on a particularly fraught peace treaty: if the Jedi negotiator won, the Treaty would be adopted; if the Trahiri champion won then it would all be to do again in another cycle. He had been chosen by the Senate and the Council for his weapons-mastery and unattached state, because the Senate wanted Talanth at peace. That terrible morning had demanded formality and solemnity, and somehow he had found words for what had always been marked by gesture and intent. He had been taken aback by the _joy_ with which his opponent had greeted his salute, his blade. And taking that life - accepting that sacrifice - had been one of the hardest and most terrible things he had ever had to do.)

He hadn't thought of that day in years, though the young man's name remained in his Litany of Remembrance. This occasion seemed to call for a salute as well, a formal invocation.

Bringing himself to his full height, he traced a graceful shape in the air toward the center of the practice floor with the tip of his lightsabre. "I salute the Force, Living and Unifying." A flare of warmth prickled his scalp and tingled in his palms. The Force appeared to be listening.

An almost too-deep breath and he dipped his head, holding the hilt balanced before him and focusing inward on the place in his mind where his own Padawan link with Yoda had been active and now lay quiescent, still. Softly, "I honor my Master, and all who went before." A curl, a ripple went out and returned, as if Yoda had looked up and thought of him.

He touched the equally quiet place of his training link with his first apprentice. "Ylian. The Force be with you." A listening silence enfolded the words. She was out there, somewhere, serving.

Head back, eyes closed, sending, casting forth - "I charge and honor Anakin, and all who will come after." Quicksilver brightness, a grin, a frown. Who knew what Anakin perceived, or from how far away.

Then, late come but never least, he brought the sabre vertical, blade up, hilt high in front of his face where the song of the blade rang in his ears, down to pulse at his breastbone, and out, away, toward that Other: head and heart and hand, all his. "Obi-Wan." The bond between them sang with connection [...oh love...] distant, present.

Finally, his opponent, his intention: himself. "Let me see what you are made of, old man," he murmured. "Begin as you mean to go on, Master Qui-Gon Jinn."

And graceful, forceful, he stepped forward into the first attack.

/_What is this flame, this fire none withstand?_/

He had chosen to begin with slow work, quarter speed, a steady, inexorable dance. Mindful of each motion, each breath, his shape and place and the sabre as an extension of his hand, his will, all contained within the Force, Living and Unifying.

Attack to center, block from center, step and turn, stone secure, water flowing. Attack, block, parry, attack. Crisp and fluid, feet sure, fire flickers, air moves. His body knew this pattern, better than his mind did - along for the ride, keeping time, making notes. Step, pivot, block, turn, attack, block, attack, parry, step, cut, block out, turn, step, attack in, block, pivot, step, still, acknowledge. The dance compelled - steel and fire, force and Force.

He circled in again, still slow, half speed, intensely concentrated. Within these few movements were the seeds of every other, every Form and mode and kata.

/_That binds and loosens, frees all, fastens tight_/

Within the dance he was fire and air, stone and water, a shape of will wholly present in his body and distanced from it, weaving together skill and instinct and perception. Deeply and precisely aware of the continuous Now. This detached yet intimate awareness let him begin to see where what he 'knew' was right, and where it was no longer what his damaged body fit. Freed from expectation - merely doing - he could listen and be mindful of those messages. The end of the form brought again a moment of stillness.

/_Choice, chance and change contained within my hand_/

Full speed now, without reservation, more effort and less, speed &amp; precision, grace &amp; power. Easy to get sloppy, to lose focus in anticipation. Block, attack, pivot - flying almost. Another circle, another pause. Twice through at full, then, with a deep breath, almost a sob, reaching far down into his laboring chest, Fighting speed. Blindingly fast, leaning into the Force, every particle focused, green sigil-shapes written in the air and instantly over-written. This was even faster than he and Obi-Wan had taken the form the other day. Three times around, the pattern complete. Release the Force to spin continuously motionless in the still center and stop. Stop. Mark the end. /All right, Master Qui-Gon Jinn, what have you learned?/

/I own this. I can do this. I _am_ this./

(He is the swordsman he is _because_ he has found within the forms and strictures of the nearly moribund Tradition a true path, a real faith. He _is_ Jedi (just as Yoda is, and he taught Ylian to find, and taught Obi-Wan to be), and if pushed, will always serve - serve the will of the Force, over the will of the Council or the Senate.)

The healers would not like the quick, ragged gasp of breath, the deep tickle that was not quite a cough, or the high, thin ringing in his ears. Uncomfortable, yes, but not dangerous - information to be mindful of. What it chiefly told him was that he needed to do this more often, with the care and deliberate focus he was giving it now. The physical therapy exercises had not been designed to restore his fighting strength and flexibility, and there was much that was stiff, soft or weakened. The long convalescence had taken a toll that would require some significant attention to address, to even find out what he truly could do in this arena.

Qui-Gon stood balanced, resting with head tilted back, eyes closed, while the sobbing gasps lessened, evened. The short spikes of his hair were bronze-black with damp and the broad, flat angles of chest and back were sheened with effort, bright and dark by turns under the clear light. He waited, patient, for the right moment to begin again.

He had shifted from center guard rest to his habitual high right guard, feeling the pull of strain across the scars as he did so. Thoughtfully, he went through the whole set of standard guard positions, pausing briefly in each - center, high right, high left, low reverse and hidden. High left eased the strain considerably. He marked it with a nod, and wondered why such a simple accommodation had not occurred to him before.

/_And does the darkness beckon from that brand_/

Second Form, third mode. The fierce brilliance out of the wrong corner of his eye was briefly distracting. It had been much too long since he had practiced variant stances. Once through full slow, quarter speed. The Second Form was longer and more demanding, introducing simple combinations and parry-attacks. He did not have the wind to breathe in slow, deep rhythm with the slow, deliberate motion, and it made keeping the pace in strict time much harder.

High, low, block, parry, thrust out, circle parry, cut. His shortened breath sucked and dragged, but Water flowed and Stone upheld. The high overhand block and attack caused him to draw in a sharp, arrhythmic breath as the motion pulled scarred tissue further than it wanted to go. Low block to hidden attack, turn block, thrust block, pivot, attack cut. He had forgotten how much _work_ properly done slow work could be. Fire flickered along nerve and Air wheezed in his throat. Attack, block, turn, acknowledge.

Barely pausing, reaching for the Force, Qui-Gon moved into the circle again, half speed, once through, mindful of using the alternate guard, remembering to use the pivots and change points as rests, flowing with the Force. Breathe and _relax_ into the high overhands, letting the power flow along the line from heel to knee to hip to spine, head up, shoulders loose. Breathe into the follow-throughs. Using the left guard put some of the cuts on the diagonal, but still within the form. The half-speed pattern continued, and the Jedi Master fought for the serenity and deep, effortless awareness of the Moment that had been his so shortly before, the detached and close awareness that had let him both study and know the balance and flow and shape of body, movement and Force, even as it changed and shifted in the doing. It was much harder to find and maintain, but even more needful than in the First Form. As the slow pattern came around to completion he knew he had a great deal of work to do to find the true new shape the Second Form now demanded, but also that the shape was there to be found. Turn, acknowledge; stand sucking in labored breaths, le the tympani of his heartbeat slow, release and gather again to him the Force, his focus, his will.

/_Conceived, destroyed in paradox of might_/

Second Form, full speed: the defense of root and reed, the attack of sap and edge, and the green flash-lightning binding them together. His body exorcised effort in disregarded sound, grunts and sobs, a sharp cry at the swift pair of high overhands, but the Tree stood, the Grass wove. Around again, fiercely, steely focused and dripping wet, dark prints marking the still points of the dance.

Without pause he lept straight into Fighting speed, using the hard-bought momentum of the previous circle to snap up to the higher speed, the tighter focus. Absolutely in the instant, thoughtless, doing. Dancing the steel and lightning dance.

Unconsciously, he had shifted back to high right guard with the faster speed, and each cut and block came crisp and straight, singing with agony that had ceased to register as pain, was only a fiercer means of focus. Quick, desperate breaths patterned to the need of the body compelled by the dance; will and nerve sucking in the Force, pushing and pulling against it, pushed and pulled by it, within it. Not the high, hard joy of the First Form pinnacle, but the stubborn tenacity of will, the red-edged endurance of too long, too close acquaintance with the taste and color of the body's pain, a need to push that limit, to _know_, to _do_.

The streaks and dots and sigils of green fire were growing ragged, imperfect runes but still patterned, written across the still light. Until the repetition of the high overhand undid him and back muscles locked, overtaxed, his chest spasming and squeezing the breath from him in a hoarse shout of agony and surprise. Focus ripped away, snatched out of the air, he fell heavily, gracelessly to the floor, sabre dropping with a truncated hiss from hands suddenly strengthless and shaking uncontrollably. He lay in a tumbled half-curl on the ground, fighting desperately for air.

Oh, the healers wouldn't be happy with him, not at all.

The deep scars that pierced him were protesting, sending fiery messages to spine and skull, and the deep, harsh tickle at the bottom of his lung was turning into a wrenching cough. (What had he been _thinking_, to try this without a spotter? he swore at himself.)

He hadn't been thinking. He'd been doing.

/_The corner of the circle do I stand_/

/Circles again!/ He was curled around his center but the cough had him, was tearing through him, fragmenting his sight, shattering thought. He _could_ _not_ get enough air.

Helplessly he reached out for the Force - to draw it to him to ease the conflict in his chest, soothe abused tissues, stop the convulsive retching for breath and allow him to just breathe. For a moment he could not catch it, could not find or hold the pulse of the Force, and fear spiked through him, assailing him with cold, blind agony. To fall, again, powerless, helpless in an instant. The cramps and spasms crawled and twitched along nerve and muscle. /No!/ Fear could not, _would_ not be allowed a hold over him. He shivered violently, involuntarily, pushing the paralyzing emotion away, out, into the Force, which was, as always, right there where it ought to be. /This too needs thought, meditation. And soon. Fear _will_ cripple you./

But the moment of utter, frozen stillness had stopped the cough, broken the wracking chain and allowed him to draw in air again, to feel the Life in and around him. /Let's _not_ do that again, Qui-Gon, all right?/ Oh he hurt, and he knew he couldn't move yet, couldn't uncurl or turn or shift or do anything but breathe shallowly and quietly and swallow and breathe again in little, measured mouthfuls of air. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Let the sinuses do their job, warm and soften the harsh air. Relax the raw throat, the tight diaphragm, the already over-stressed muscles holding his ribs together. The constricting tickle was subsiding, but still there. To disturb the balance, to breathe too deep or too fast would set it off again.

He lay there, crumpled, letting the air fall in and out of his lung. /And this is only Second Form.../ (Never mind that he had been at the work for over an hour, that he never slept well with Obi-Wan away, was not rested, that he would, always, push himself.) And where had his so-celebrated skill vanished to, that he could fail and fall so hard in such a simple form; that his body _would not_ conform to his will, his need? He did not even have enough strength to be angry.

(But he was angry: a deep, silent, simmering _refusal_ to be helpless, useless, broken and unserviceable. It stalked him, pushed him, woke him with nightmares and colored his dreams. More unexamined emotion. /"Meditate, you must. Discover the heart, the why. Then address the how of controlling your temper. For temper you have, Qui-Gon, and control it you must. Or control you, it will."/)

Anger would have energized him, fired thought and muscle into action, into doing. The hard, harsh cough had left him momentarily strengthless &amp; weak. And he _hated_ feeling weak, fragile, helpless. (And it wasn't getting any better. It wasn't going to get any better. It would _never_ get any better....)

This was a softer, quieter, colder sea than the distress he still struggled with in Obi-Wan's absence, oily and seductive, creeping behind and under and around his defenses rather than battering at them. These formless waves sucked at him, coaxing dark flotsam from old, hidden places in his mind, tasting of failure, of loneliness, of Xanatos and wounds that had scarred but never quite healed. Weighted his heart with the sick, heavy scent of seeping decay, of falling forever into cold, gelid darkness, of the sick-sweet ease of giving in.

/No. You don't win either, Dark take you. No./ Grimly he pressed his eyes closed, his cheek to the cool resilience of the floor and fought with himself. Struggled against the insidious, bitter coils of defeat and hopelessness. This, _this_ was despair, the chill, hopeless obverse of anger. A sibling emotion, even more dangerous and almost as frequent an opponent.

He knew he had a temper, and he had been told, over and over, to release those feelings into the Force, to let go of them. He had learned to control his passion, to use the energy it could give, the speed and fire and occasional insight, the power of contained, deceptively quiet force - all tools to use in serving the will of the Force. In the main he did rule his passionate temper, rather than it ruling him. It rarely took him unawares anymore, but time and experience had only strengthened his feelings, increasing rather than decreasing the struggle, the need for control. Despair wasn't amenable to control, though; wasn't defeated by pushing it away, letting it go. It was too formless to push. Too deep-set to drop. No, despair, like grief, required to be worked through, overwritten, filled up, plucked out strand by invisible strand, reasoned with and burnt out with fire and light and love.

(And where had his so-vaunted control vanished to, that fear and anger and despair could so assail him, hold him, roil forth and disturb Obi-Wan, frighten Anakin?) Put that thought away too, with the others for further meditation.

He could breathe more easily now, the cough gone, the quivering paralysis of cramped and overextended muscles slowly retreating. With a little sound between a groan and a sigh he uncurled and turned from his side to lie flat on his back, letting his body recover, ordering his feelings, his thoughts. Attending to these meditations, addressing the anger and despair that required to be dealt with _now_, in the present.

Because those dark voices were lying to him. There was improvement, had been and would continue to be - real and measurable - however small and slow and less than he wanted it to be. The kinetic truth of the completed First Form, the Second Form slow work, the fact that Obi-Wan had gone on into Third Form without pause (proof enough in itself!) clearly showed him, gave him evidence in flesh and force and motion, that there was nothing in these most basic and most important of the Forms that was beyond him, however much work he might have to do to reach again a standard he could be satisfied with.

And how could he allow despair to take him when he had Obi-Wan to love and be loved by in return? His fierce, tenacious beloved who loved him enough to let - insist! - he be Jedi first, even though his own first instincts were to hold, to ward and protect his Master and beloved. (That had been an unexpectedly hard lesson to learn for both of them.)

How could he despair with such a force as Anakin in his life? Sun-bright, curious, active, always coming up with new angles on old things, questioning assumptions and never taking "it's Tradition" as sufficient answer, wanting - needing - to know _why_. The least interaction with the boy fired his own curiosity, frequently to Obi-Wan's exasperation, since his Knight _liked_ traditions and rules and found comfort in stability, in the straightforward answers of the Code, rather than the deeper, more ambiguous questions and meanings underlying it. (Which was not to say he had not studied and absorbed those deeper, more complex structures and concepts - he could hardly do otherwise as Qui-Gon's apprentice - but dwelling there and working out of that chancy place was not his preferred mode of operation, as it was his Master's. Qui-Gon _liked_ symbolism, metaphor, ambiguity and intricacy, shades of meaning and intent.)

But he had now strayed very far from his present purpose.

/This place./ He brought his attention back to the present: the hard stone under the resilient padding pressing into the points of his shoulderblades, his elbows and heels and the back of his skull, the prickle of his hair against the floor as he moved his head, the shadows and spaces of the groined ceiling, the still fall of light and the echo-y sense of the high-set shielding, the chill of sweat drying on his body and the little trembles in his muscles. /This purpose./ To work out on the paper of his flesh &amp; in the ink of his effort who and what he was.

With a careful deep breath, Qui-Gon rolled over, pushed himself up and knelt back on his heels, standard meditation posture. He was not yet finished, his purpose in the Second Form required he complete one more circle of the Form, and his body could not do that yet, after such a violent interruption. In a moment he would proceed again.

/_Desire is simplicity - demand_/

/Desire./

The poem had not deserted him. What did he desire? What did he _want_? A crystalline image flashed in his mind, flared along his nerves.

Obi-Wan had a still-holo, an image from a training droid, taken in a room much like this one, of him in the midst of a particularly difficult kata - the Strait Path, Spiraling, the Twenty-ninth Form, sixty-third position, the Kol'hlin variation. So thoroughly was he attuned, focused within and willing out the Force, that the image shows that while his sabre is lit, poised and balanced in his right hand, the Force itself is manifested green and glowing in his left. He is wearing only practice leggings, torso bare, chest unmarked, unmarred, his long hair half-caught back and flowing. It is a picture of Jedi Swordmaster Qui-Gon Jinn at the height of his mastery, accounted by some the best of the age, of the last several ages. "The inspiration of the Force," Obi-Wan had answered when asked why _that_ image.

That was what he wanted, to have that back, to be again that free and strong and capable. He found himself kneeling up, calling his sabre to him, arms opening to that position in the form. The jerk and pull of scar tissue was a cruel contrast to the picture, the kinesthetic memory, drawing from him another wordless sound, half pain, half ... everything else. He bowed his head, folding his arms back in, returning to rest on his ankles, placing the sabre hilt across his knees, long fingers light upon it. /You know better than that, old man,/ he chided himself. /Even if you can still make the air glow green when you set your mind to it./

(The holo had been used to sit on a shelf in their common room, but Qui-Gon could not remember when he had last seen it. With a pang, he supposed Obi-Wan had put it away somewhere, too harsh a reminder.)

Desire. He could have that image back, or very nearly. The image of that image. As Obi-Wan had said, "even now the healers could do it," could repair the damage, replace it all with synthetics, bio-mechanics that would work nearly as well (some claimed as well if not better) than the uninjured original flesh. (But a machine cannot be taught, cannot learn, cannot grow.) It would certainly be an improvement over what he was currently struggling with. They could even re-grow the skin, take the surface scars away. Erase it from view.

But.

But it would only _look_ like that moment from the undamaged past. It would not, _could_ not, _be_ that image, the reality that underlay the memory. That reality was _gone_, burnt out, seared away. He knew that, with every breath he took, with every pulse of the Force. For him, for who he was and how he lived within the Force, such extensive, invasive mechanical replacement would only be a mockery, a true crippling.

He sighed, deeply, heavily. "No." The whisper echoed softly in the small room, in the listening Force. "No. That is not the way. Image without substance is not my desire." He shivered. Serious consideration of that possibility (and he had given it serious thought, forcing himself to cold, rational assessment as well as listening to the frantic, instinctual, utter rejection of the idea by his heart, his feelings; in the long, timeless endurance of the early days of his recovery, the enforced stillness of full life-support, there had been little to do _but_ think,) still set his teeth on edge, tightened his stomach, clenched around his heart (physical reactions he had not been able to invoke or control at the time, that he could not stop now.) The keening edge of the Dark sang along that road. Too disruptive of his perceptions, his self-definitions. No easy answers; certainly not that one.

What then was his desire, simply, within the present, within the will of the Force, that could usefully be demanded, pursued? And he realized beyond the bone-deep 'to serve, to do, to love' that was as much a part of him as blood or breath or his sense of the Living Force, that in truth he did not know.

/So why not ask, Master Jinn? Why not ask the body, the heart and mind and spirit, and _listen_ to the answers, as you are always telling Anakin to do? Anakin, who is still asking questions. Ask the flesh what it is the spirit needs, the heart desires./

Qui-Gon smiled, almost laughed. /So simple./ His eyes lightened at the thought of presenting that answer to one of Anakin's questions, the boy's quizzical expression at the puzzle and Obi-Wan's grin of appreciation at working out yet another way of expressing 'the mind writes deeply in the body, and the body, in turn, writes deeply in the mind'. /Not easy, but simple./ And he nodded and spoke gravely to himself in the silence. "I shall so ask."

He began to climb back up to his feet. He had stiffened markedly as he lay and knelt in the aftermath of the fall, and joints and muscles protested as he stood. He breathed, stretched gently, listened.

/_Accept - soul, flesh and heart unite_/ /Accepting limits is not crippling - refusing to recognize them is. Drawing them too narrow is as damaging as pushing them too hard./

He found his center, lit again the blade. The pattern was unfinished, the match not yet complete. The Jedi swordmaster stepped into the circle for the final repetition of the Second Form, seeking a pace his body could support. Not quite full speed, not now; walking rhythm, deliberate, a steady going forth. But beneath his feet the stone upheld the pillars of the universe, water flowed forever as blood within his veins. Sap and root, tree and reed, all edged green and brilliant in the lightening Force. Slow fire was still fire, sparks from the sun, warming his heart in the dance, and the wind that blew between the worlds breathed in his chest, ruffled his hair.

Parry, attack, pivot, parry sweep, high block, high attack. His arms trembled hard and his left shoulder tried again to cramp. Breathe, listen, map the strain. /It is only over-exertion, not inability./ Accept the pain as pain, a message, not fuel for focus, but don't lose focus either. The body is speaking. Listen, accept. Low block thrust, center parry, attack, attack, turn block, side cut. The short, harsh breath, the quivering muscles, complaining tendons are just physical things, not commentary on his worth, his worthiness, his identity as Qui-Gon Jinn, as Jedi. Just his body, telling him things. His body, that he loves Obi-Wan with, touching and touched, held and holding, wholly expressing those things that words can only ever merely symbolize. Parry, attack, block, turn, cut. His body, the housing for his spirit, his heart, deserving of care. Low attack, back parry, thrust. His body, the flesh he had not listened to in far too long. When had he stopped listening to it? Why?

(Because not listening, like not thinking, had been a coping mechanism, a way of dealing with overwhelming physical pain, with the disconnection forced between mind and body by the exigencies of the technologies keeping him alive, allowing the spirit and flesh to function separately and come to separate agreements with what was being done to him. Not listening had been a way of using the old picture, the old reality, as a template to encourage healing. But that time was now past. Now 'not listening' would get in the way of what was possible. /It was a crutch. It did what was needed, and now must be put away. Not in anger at weakness, nor fear of falling, but in the serenity that comes with healing. Now is the time to reconnect, to listen./)

And he finished out the form. Attack, block, turn, acknowledge. He had done what he had set out to do. He breathed in deep and sobbing gasps, shaken with effort. The pattern was complete: action and consequence, ardent and demanding art.

/_Choice, chance and change contained within my hand_/

The blade of his sabre hummed in his hands, fierce, sated, as he brought the hilt up in weary salute, releasing the Force to spin again motionless in the center. He was very tired, but also light, at peace. With a deep and bittersweet satisfaction he powered down the emerald brilliance of his lightsabre. The silence rang and echoed.

/So, Master Jinn, what have you learned?/ (Though much is taken, much abides.) He was still Jedi, worthy of the blade. A Master, with mastery of himself still within his reach (and with the urgent necessity of re-applying that mastery bourne in strait upon him.) A person, injured but not crippled, changed but not broken, with skills and commitments, a need to own a measure of control over his life, loves and fears, desires and hopes.

Master Qui-Gon held his faintly trembling hands out, feeling again the touch of Obi-Wan's hands on his own, curling his fingers around his sabre. /"Then use it however you can."/ Pressed against his palms, resting under his fingers it felt _right_, fitting, serene and powerful in potential, weightlessly freighted with meaning. [Oh love, thank you for the gift of your wisdom.]

He can fight, can re-learn, re-tool enough of his reflexes and responses to defend himself, keep fit, dance with Obi-Wan, even teach certain things. And in the event that disaster should befall the Jedi and the Temple be attacked, he would not be a burden to be protected, weaponless &amp; defenseless, but on the other hand, he will never again have the stamina, the flexibility, the sheer physical resources needed to actively pursue the Jedi Outward Path of intergalactic service. No more missions as Knight. (Oh, that hurt. That did hurt, but it _had_ to be accepted.) He bowed his head, let his heart and spirit feel the pain of that loss, acknowledge it, and put it away. This too will be to do again, but done once means it _can_ be done again, as many times as needed until acceptance and understanding are truly reached.

What he wanted was no more (and no less) than what he had always wanted - to do, to serve, to love and be loved. And in acting out of that desire he would have what he needed of control.

With reverence he bowed again to the still center of the practice floor. He would be here again, though not tomorrow, working to find and hold the dance, relearning its lessons, knowing again its hard joys and unforgiving beauties. He would both act and meditate on what this day had given him, what he has learned, will continue to learn.

Qui-Gon stepped over to the neat pile of clothes, putting down his sabre, picking up a towel. He smiled slightly in memory and anticipation. Obi-Wan would undoubtably find him here again some return, some evening, or they would come here to spar and dance together (and love, perhaps).

/_Bright and black this torch at my command_/

/light and dark, loss and gain, acceptance and refusal. All right decision, all right action is two edged. Many faceted./ He was still Jedi, still a Master, and with that affirmation came all the correlaries: Jedi have responsibilities, duties. _He_ has responsibilities, duties. A responsibility to serve, to do (to love), and not the desire only.

He dried himself briefly with the towel in his hand and began to dress. Greeny-cream linen undertunic, fitting smooth and snug, close-fastened at the wrist. He cannot go back to being what he was, a serving Knight and Master on the Outward Path. (Accept the pain, release it.) And while his presence alone serves to support Obi-Wan and Anakin in their service, and as useful and needful as that is, has been and will continue to be, it is not now nearly enough.

Raw cream silk overtunic, pleasantly textured under the fingers, sleeves falling in soft, wide folds. /"A Jedi does so much more than fight"/ his wise beloved had pointed out. And he was, or had occasionally been, when circumstances allowed, a scholar, a poet; rather more often mentor, teacher, gadfly to the Council and collector and succorer of 'pathetic lifeforms.' /I have fourty-plus years of active knowledge and experience, three apprentices, countless worlds. I have held the light and touched the dark, and worked to find a path between the two./

He settled the stola over his shoulders, the same thick silk as the overtunic, smoothing the panels straight. Over and under, over and under, the edges lay neat and layered, elegant in the graduation of shade and texture. Knowledge was of the Light, of Life; ignorance neither light nor dark but in potential, intent. False knowledge, knowledge deliberately destroyed or withheld or mis-given was of the Dark. He had experience of all that, could convey that experience. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. And Obi-Wan honored his teaching over his swordsmanship anyway.

His hands were deftly tucking and winding the broad silk Knight's sash around his waist, holding all the layers together neatly and in place. The layering of cloth was not unlike the layering of experience in the life of a Jedi - Initiate to Padawan to Knight to Master and around again, training up the next cycle.

He not only could teach, he would, regardless of time, place or being told not to. His smile widened in rememberance of answering Anakin's questions without a second thought after that more than uncomfortable meeting with the Council ("I'm not allowed to train you Ani, but ....") He couldn't _not_ teach, any more than he could stop mapping symbolic resonances, remembering interesting words, loving Obi-Wan, Anakin, Ylian, or feeling the Living Force.

The belt snugged secure, he sat on the raised and carpeted corner to pull on and fasten his boots. It was an obligation, a duty, and in that clarity, also a joy. As he had the sight, the knowledge, the perspective and the skill, therefore he had also the _responsibility_ to apply those things in the service of the Force. As the Force willed. The clear duty to teach, to apply his knowledge to increasing the greater store of knowledge, to support his beloved and his almost-Padawan, and yes, even the responsibility to continue to be a gadfly, defiant as the situation, his perceptions and the Force required.

He stood, clipping his sabre to his belt and draping the soft dark wool of his cloak over his shoulders, pulling it on. Easier to wear than carry, though a little over-warm at the moment.

He was Jedi. He _would_ serve.

/_And I must balance will with sense and sight_/

Balance. Will. The heart of his understanding and expression of the Jedi Code. Sense contained intuition and every other perception; sight, knowledge and responsibility. Both structured thought, action, as had the Forms, the salutes, the Work he had set himself (that Obi-Wan had set him), the persistent poem. And within that interwoven metaphysical structure he found himself paradoxically free, light, serene. He was himself, Qui-Gon Jinn, Jedi, and beloved. He breathed deeply, embracing the balance.

Turning to the control panel, he lowered the shielding, feeling the quality of the silence change, taking in the expanded sense of corridor and hallway, out to the courtyard and the whole Temple beyond the door. The lock released and the panel hissed open. Master Jinn stepped out into the hallway, leaving the practice space behind. He saw with poet's eyes as he made his slow way back to his and Obi-Wan's and Anakin's rooms. Water and stone and wood and air greeted him at every turn, children and green plants in the grassy courtyards, carved fountains, airy glass cloisters speaking of ancient tradition, of art and will and peace in duty, scented with bright flowers, the warmth of the evening's baking bread. The Moment. This moment and the next and on into the future.

Physically, he was sore and very tired, needing the Force to keep his feet steady, his pace smooth. The empty spaces in his chest ached. He would hurt tomorrow, but now he was filled with a renewed sense of purpose, buoyed rather than weighed down by responsibility and duty. /I _am_ Jedi, I _will_ teach/ (and certain parties may regret that he will so do - for he will be led by the Force in this as in all his other works.)

With his breath deepening and rough with growing joy, he stopped in the archway leading to the herb garden, face to the distant sun of Coruscant. For the first time since Naboo he felt he truly fit inside his skin. Even the trembles and sharp complaints of his body were but notes in the song of Life, evidence of love, of effort, of possibility. The beginning of the next stage of healing. He knew he had a long way to go, but it was a beginning. (And he was not alone, however far away his loved ones might be, never alone.)

Resting against the smooth stone of the pillar holding up the arch he contemplated the sunlight on the garden for a moment longer, planning his next steps. /Back to their quarters, making sure to greet the plant with affection &amp; respect. Take a long, hot, much needed shower. Find that poem (or write it out if he cannot find it) and if it isn't one Ylian gave him it will be an excellent thing to give her. Dress fully and formally, lightsabre in place (as it has not often been recently) and go sign himself back into the teaching roster. To do, to serve, to love./ He smiled broadly at the sturdy herbs, his eyes crinkling and sparkling. Yoda would be pleased. Mace ... might not be. /Greetings, my Master. Have a care, Councillor, I have taken up my duty again./

And with a last nod and smile to the garden, wrapped in the Living Force, Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn turned to set about making his intent reality.

/_The corner of the circle do I stand,_/  
/_Choice, chance and change contained within my hand._/

**Author's Note:**

> The image of 'the corner of the circle' is not original to me. Many years ago I read a Blake's 7 story in a fanzine that used the line, and it stuck. (It may have been the title of the story, even. I don't remember - not the author, title, 'zine or even the plot beyond that it had to do mostly with Avon &amp; some kind of psychic something.) But the paradoxical concept/image remained indelibly fixed. Thank you to whoever you were. :-)
> 
> This story also owes a great deal to the SCA, and several fighters in particular who have shown me something of the Art of fighting, and gave me the wherewithal to understand the significance of salutes and the need to work out understanding in action. I hope I have managed to convey some of the love, energy and beauty of the form as well as the effort.
> 
> I see a very clear illo for this whole segment: two images confronting each other - that pic, and one of JAOA Qui-Gon, again dressed only in leggings, but scarred, with short hair, kneeling with his arms in the same positions, sabre unlit (or faintly lit) -- he's using it up full in the ritual, but this is more of a mental/symbolic picture rather than trying to be a photograph -- but still with the green glow in his other hand/surrounding him. One picture, both figures connected by the attention of the Present on the Past -- the Past is wholly in its captured moment, a memory, an image. The Present wishing for the past to be still his, knowing it is not, cannot be, but something else can be/is becoming. The line of attention drawing a diagonal from upper left to middle/lower right, the Force still potent, ever present.
> 
> Black Rose drew a challenge-pic that this image is based off of, and should I get her permission to include it here, I will.
> 
> The poem that runs through this story is a villanelle, a very strictly structured poetic form, originally French. All those repetitions are in the rules, part of the format. I wrote it for the story, taking an almost-villanelle I had written a number of years ago and re-working it significantly - expanding it to proper length and giving it a new direction and focus.
> 
> Villanelle II 11 August 1999
> 
> The corner of the circle do I stand  
> Perceiving both the shadow and the light  
> Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.  
> No comfort here, no surety but sand -  
> The fond familiar offers no respite  
> The corner of the circle do I stand.  
> What is this flame, this fire none withstand,  
> That binds and loosens, frees all, fastens tight?  
> Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.  
> And does the darkness beckon from that brand,  
> Conceived, destroyed in paradox of might?  
> The corner of the circle do I stand.  
> Desire is simplicity - demand,  
> Accept - soul, flesh and heart unite:  
> Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.  
> Bright and black, this torch at my command,  
> And I must balance will with sense and sight -  
> The corner of the circle do I stand,  
> Choice, chance and change contained within my hand.


End file.
